I like to call this kind of body “anime fat” You see a lot of artists draw curvy or even what they call “chubby/fat” girls like this but it doesn’t…. even come close???? Fat does not just stay in the places where you think it’s attractive. Fat goes into arms, and the stomach etc. If you want to represent fat women in your comics, art, etc. then do it right, bc there isn’t enough positive representation out there.
Thigh gaps: Thigh gaps aren’t going to exist if your character is chubby or fat, it’s just not realistic to have wide thigh gaps
Big breasts/ass+ skinny eveywhere else: Fat girls can have big breasts and big behinds but not always. Fat people have different body shapes and each person’s fat goes to different places. So there will always be fat girls with small breasts and no ass
More than one chin: Fat people can have double chins it’s not an ugly thing and you should be able to draw it, it’s not that hard :)
Lastly, I don’t really care if you draw like the pic on the left, I’m just saying you should never consider that being fat. Also, as an artist who draws people you should always try to learn how to draw all sorts of people, not just the kind you find attractive; that’s how you really get better at drawing
I remember being seven and hoping, praying that this was just forgotten, misplaced baby fat that would dissolve from my body like it had for the other girls. being nine and overhearing boys talk about the developing body I tried to hide under folded arms. ten and going on my first diet. twelve and kneeling on cold bathroom tiles and feeling my heartbeat in my head because someone called me fat. thirteen and trimming images out of magazines, adhering photos of plasticized bodies to pages of a journal filled with numbers and measurements, poring over the words of girls who knew how to empty their bodies until only skin cloaked their bones. fourteen and listening to the weight of my feet hitting the treadmill, sweat beading and tears pooling and hands shaking. sixteen and conscientiously separating my worth from my body and never letting the two touch. nineteen and avoiding mirrors and feigning indifference. twenty-one and having a bout of anxiety with my back pressed against a fitting room wall of a store where nothing will stretch to fit the span of my hips and I can’t cry because my friends are outside. twenty-two and I can’t eat because he’s looking at me and I can’t even look at me.
and now I am twenty-three and I can still hear the deafening reverberation of every label that’s ever been slapped across my body. every name, every overheard word. even the fumbled phrases mistaken for compliments.
so pretty if you’d lose some weight,
so pretty for a fat girl,
you know, some boys are into that.
the obvious presumption being that I existed merely to be looked at, admired. and I believed that, and based my fears upon it. every time I’d glance at my body and see cellulite, folds, divots . every time I stood in front of the mirror and pulled at my clothing until my eyes glazed over and I only saw shapes. but here I am at twenty-three, and I am learning to throw off every notion of living to be something to look at. to only be something pretty. I will not settle for pretty. I will exist to be kind and soft and strong and brave and smart and tender. I will not be the art. I will be the artist.